'There do be another bed in the back room,' she suggested, winding one arm about his neck, and guiding his hand onto her ample, uncorsetted rump.
She was drenched in some cheap violet scent, and her unrestrained breasts were pressing against his chest, inches from his fascinated gaze. He was at the same time repelled but aroused. When she stood up and tugged at his hand he went with her up the narrow stairs.
As Flo rapidly discarded the few clothes she wore, Richard tried to shut out the uninhibited sounds coming from the other bedroom. He recalled Berthe's more subtle approach, and wished he was back in her bed. And then, under Flo's skilled administrations he forgot everything but the immediate release of tension.
That, he soon knew, was all it meant. Afterwards he wondered at his actions. Flo had none of the flattering tricks employed by Berthe. She was eager for his embraces, but more concerned for her own animal appetites to be satisfied than caring about his. And she was even more eager to accept the presents he gave her.
He vowed never to return, but the lure was insidious. He missed Berthe, and had found in Flo a very inadequate substitute. How could women be so different? Yet as he tossed and turned in bed he knew with utter certainty he never wanted to see either of them again.
His mother, perhaps deliberately, had never employed pretty maidservants. Through a sense of propriety Richard had never been tempted to seduce any of the maids in houses where he stayed, although he knew Edwin and his other friends had no such qualms and regarded them as fair game.
Where did Marigold fit in? She wasn't from his world, she was a servant. Yet unlike some of the maids she did not offer herself. From her shrinking behaviour when he touched her he guessed she was totally inexperienced with men.
Did he want her in his bed? He lay there, imagining her slim body beside him, and knew an intense longing. He did want her, more than he'd ever wanted Berthe, and infinitely more than he'd wanted Flo. It would be the most exhilarating thing in the world to hold her in his arms, to instruct her in the ways of love. With a deep sigh he turned over and began to make plans.
*
She had two full days at home, and spent the first, New Year's Eve, preparing a feast for the family. Mary had decided they were now all old enough to stay up and celebrate the changing of the year, and Ivy danced about in excitement at the thought of wearing her new dress.
'It'll be 1913, and soon I'll be eight! Marigold, when I'm old enough, can I come and stay with you in Oxford?'
'Yes, if I'm still there and Mrs Roberts allows it,' Marigold promished rashly. She was so happy knowing Richard wanted to see her again, and being at home with her beloved family, she'd have promised anything.
'Marigold may have another job by then,' Mary warned, smiling across Ivy's head at her older daughter.
Marigold looked so different! She'd only been home twice before during her six months at Oxford, but even since the last time she seemed to have matured. Instead of the childish plait she now put up her hair in a neat chignon. Her face was slightly thinner, but her beauty was increased by this, and she was developing curves, so it wasn't hunger. Mary smiled to herself. Of course she would be well fed in such a good household, but she couldn't help worrying.
They had their main meal late that evening, and the girls chattered so much that John's unusual silence was not remarked, even by Mary.
The first hint Marigold had that he had changed came just after they'd been outside listening to the church bells ringing in the New Year.
'Ivy, off to bed now, or you'll never get up in the morning,' Mary said. 'You too, Poppy. We'd all better go.'
'Not yet! Please, Mom, not for a bit!' Ivy wheedled.
Mary laughed. 'Yes! I know it's a special day, or night rather, but you can't stay up all night.'
'I will when I'm grown up. I'll stay up every night and sleep during the day!' Ivy declared, dancing round the table which was still littered with the remnants of their meal.
'Ivy, love, don't be naughty. I've got to clear all this up, and I'm too tired to argue, even if you're still full of life.'
'Do as your Mom says. At once!'
Marigold jumped. She'd never before heard her father speak like that, except when he'd thrashed Johnny.
'John – ' Mary began in a hesitant tone, and cringed when he turned towards her, his fist clenched.
'You spoil the little brat! Ivy, go to bed!'
Ivy was already at the door to the stairs.
'I'm going, Pa, I'm going,' she almost whimpered, and without bothering to visit the scullery and wash she sidled past the door and could be heard running up the stairs.
There was a silence in the kitchen. Poppy picked up some of the left-over food and took it to the pantry. Mary, with a sigh hastily suppressed, took some plates out to the scullery. John, his eyes blank, dragged his hand across his forehead, rubbed his eyes, and without a word went outside.
Marigold helped wash up, then before she could find words to say to her mother, Mary, with a muttered 'Goodnight, love, happy New Year!' went swiftly up the stairs.
Some time later, when she was lying sleepless in the big bed with her sisters, Marigold heard her father return. He moved about downstairs, and she could hear him stoking the fire, putting on slack to keep it in till the morning, pushing home the bolts on the door, and finally climbing slowly up to bed.
She strained to hear, feeling guilty at eavesdropping, but oddly afraid.
There were no sounds from the front bedroom, however, apart from one thump as John let his boot fall, and a creak as he got into bed. At last, exhausted, Marigold fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning she was the first up. Was Pa going to work? As she was wondering whether to tap on his door and remind him of the time Mary came wearily down the stairs.
'Isn't Pa well? Is it one of his headaches?' Marigold asked.
Mary shook her head, and brushed away a tear.
'I don't know what it is. He's had several days like this the last few months. He says he doesn't have a headache, but he can't get out of bed. Or if he does, he just sits huddled over the fire and does nothing all day.'
'Last night, he – ' she stopped. How could she criticise her father.
Mary nodded, understanding.
'He isn't like that usually,' she said reassuringly. 'You'd know if you were here. It seems to happen just before he gets these moods when he can't force himself to go to work.'
'Is it all right at work? He's not worried, frightened of losing his job?'
'No, it's not that. Most of the time he's just the same as usual.'
Marigold took a deep breath.
'I thought he was going to hit someone last night,' she said bleakly. 'Has he ever hit you?'
There, she'd said it, openly expressed the fear that had haunted her last night.
Mary stared at her in astonishment.
'Marigold, how could you ever even think that of your Pa? He's a good man, one of the best, and he's never laid a finger on me in anger. He's smacked you all at times, when you were little, but not hard. Most folk think he's too soft. He only ever thrashed Johnny that once, and regretted that. The others know he wouldn't hit them, or me.'
'I'm sorry, Mom. I was afraid, last night, for you.'
Slowly Mary nodded. 'I know. I'm afraid too, but not of being hit. I don't understand why he's like this sometimes. But it isn't very often, and it's not going to spoil your last day with us. I thought we'd all take a walk up on the Chase, as I've got a day off too. Best to leave the house quiet for Pa, too, he sleeps most of the time when he's feeling like this.'
And no doubt gets mad when he's kept awake, Marigold thought dismally. How could her kind Pa have grown like this? She had to take what comfort she could from her mother's reassurances that the occasions were few. A quiet word some time later with Poppy helped, for Poppy confirmed the inexplicable attacks came infrequently, and were soon over.
'And he's ever so sorry afterwards, says he doesn't know what come
s over him.'
She wished she was nearer to home and could see them more often. But then she would not have the opportunity of seeing Richard. If, indeed, he wished to see her when he was immersed in his studies again. The inward battle of her love for her family and impatience to be with Richard kept her awake the following night too, and she could barely drag herself out of bed.
At least Pa seemed his normal self, leaving early for work. He kissed her, bidding her a cheerful goodbye as though nothing had happened, although she noticed he didn't meet her gaze. She could go back to Oxford slightly less worried than she'd been the previous day.
*
Marigold set off soon after Mary had left for work, to meet Richard. She was early but he was already waiting.
'I thought I'd missed you,' he exclaimed, leaning over to open the door for her. 'I've been counting the mine chimneys, there are so many,' he said as he started the motor car.
'More than you imagine,' Marigold said with a slight laugh.
'What do you mean? What's amusing?'
'There are so many mine shafts, no-one knows where they all are, so we have to watch our steps. Quite a few people have been lost through falling down them.'
'Shafts? Not just subsidence?'
'Oh, there's plenty of that too. But there's hundreds of old shafts dug in parts of the Chase when people were trying to find the coal. They just got left if nothing was found, and a few big colliery owners developed the pits underground from the main shafts, and didn't use these. Aren't there collieries near Stoke? Don't you have the same problems?'
'Not where I live. But what about the horses? Are Mr Coulthwaite's horses likely to vanish down a mine shaft?'
'I don't think there are any up on the hills where they exercise. Were your horses doing well?'
'My father's horses. Yes. There's one which might be good enough for the Grand National in a year or two. If it's entered I shall take you to the races to see it. You'll bring me luck.'
Marigold laughed. 'I thought it was in the north? How could I?'
He smiled, and shook his head.
*
Mary came out of Foster's Bakery with the fine soft rolls Mrs Andrews liked, and continued on her way to work. It had been like old times having Marigold at home again. She wished John had not had one of his turns while the child was home, though. He didn't have them very often, these inexplicable explosions of rage, which as far as she could see were not caused by his headaches, but it had upset Marigold.
Despite all her worries she smiled. Her eldest daughter now had a much better life than she could have expected at home, worn down by the drudgery of keeping up near impossible standards. Hard though it was to lose them, she hoped Poppy and Ivy might one day have similar good fortune.
She savoured the happier recollections of these few days, dwelling on the small changes she had noticed in Marigold. Her speech was even better than Mary had always insisted on, more confident in an odd way. She held herself straight still, but this upright stance now had a tinge of pride rather than mere habit.
She seemed happy, enjoyed looking after the children, liked the other servants and Mrs Roberts. She was learning more than just being a nursery maid, too, it seemed. If Mrs Roberts used her to help at table she might one day be able to get a job as parlourmaid.
The only aspect of her new life she had been recitent about was her new friends. She talked of the other servants, and had obviously met a couple of other maidservants from nearby houses, but she'd said she didn't like going into the centre of Oxford by herself, it was too big, and she hadn't once mentioned going in with anyone else.
This had disappointed Poppy, who had demanded descriptions of the University colleges. Mary had been dimly aware Marigold was uncomfortable talking about them, and only now had leisure to wonder why.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a motor car approaching. She turned to look, intrigued by these odd new conveyances Johnny seemed to know everything about, and saw a large red monster swoop past at an incredible speed.
It was not going too fast for her to recognise Marigold, though, seated beside the driver.
After the first shock Mary began to run after the vehicle, but within yards realised the futility of this. She stopped, breathless, and leaned against a wall as she tried to regain her breath and order her whirling thoughts.
She rubbed her eyes. It had been Marigold, she was sure. Her eyesight wasn't as bad as that. Despite the shawl draped about her head and the enveloping fur rug she had seen enough to be certain it was her daughter. But she'd seen nothing of the driver.
It must have been a man, but who? If it had been Professor Roberts why hadn't Marigold mentioned him? It was unlikely they could have met by chance, for Marigold would only have crossed this road in the middle of the town, on her way to the station. She must have arranged to meet him. But who was he, and why hadn't she said anything?
Marigold was never secretive, like Ivy. She'd always told Mary everything. Mary began to shake, and had to put the shopping basket down as she clutched both arms round her trembling body. Surely Marigold wasn't being trapped by the snare of riches, the prey of some rich young man! Not her beloved eldest daughter!
That would be more than she could bear. As she grew calmer and slowly resumed her walk to the Andrews' house, Mary realised that in his present state she dared not say anything to John. Poppy was too young and too jealous of Marigold to be a confidante. She would have to keep the knowledge to herself until she had a chance to talk to Marigold. It was not the sort of thing you could write in a letter. Fervently she prayed that by the time Marigold came home again it would not be too late.
*
Richard suggested they might picnic on the side of the river in Stratford-on-Avon, and they spent an hour beforehand wandering about the town while Richard enthused about Shakespeare and compared him with the foreign writers he'd studied. Marigold, having read only the literature her teachers had considered suitable at school, usually improving moral tales by minor Victorian authors, was enchanted, longing to have the time to delve into this very different world of books and drama.
Back at the motor car again, they opened the refilled hamper. But Marigold scarcely heeded the food or her surroundings. She was absorbed in their talk. Richard told her a great deal about his life at Oxford, and the pottery on which his father's fortune was based.
Many of his anecdotes were amusing, and he had an endearing way of telling stories against himself, with a wry humour she found odd but attractive.
He encouraged her to talk too, and had great difficulty in hiding his amazement and anger at the details she unconsciously revealed about her life and home.
He had been brought up in a wealthy home. He'd seen the houses in the slums of the Pottery towns, and the mining villages nearby, but had never known in such graphic detail exactly what conditions people had to endure. That Marigold accepted them as normal, and even considered her own home to be vastly superior to those of many people she knew shocked him more than anything else.
Again the impulse he found difficult to quell which made him want to sweep her up in his arms there and then, almost overwhelmed him. If only he could carry her off with him, and surround her with every luxury he could afford.
He tried to laugh at himself. He was no King Cophetua. He was not accustomed to making grand gestures. And at the back of his mind, to his secret shame, was the niggling certainty that his parents, particularly his mother, would consider him a fit candidate for Bedlam if he told them he was besotted with a servant, a nursemaid whose father was a collier.
By the time Richard had driven Marigold back to Oxford she had agreed to meet him the following Wednesday in the Cornmarket.
'You do want to meet me again, don't you?' he demanded when she hesitated.
'Yes,' she admitted, 'but it's wrong to meet in secret, and I don't want people to talk about us.'
'We could walk by the river when you take out the children, but then we'd
be more likely to be seen, or they would talk,' he pointed out.
'But I'm just a servant! People like you don't talk to servants, only to give orders,' she tried to explain. 'It's not as though we had anything in common. What would we find to talk about?'
'I don't regard you as a servant, Marigold, and we've talked for hours today and when I drove you home. We've plenty of interests in common.'
'Who would believe that? I don't really believe it myself. It's like a dream. And I don't think I should have let you drive me home. If anyone saw me they'd think the worst.'
'Do you care what people say? When you know it isn't true?'
'What I know to be true wouldn't matter a scrap where my reputation is concerned,' she pointed out. 'It may be all right for you to say it doesn't matter, you have money and your own business to work in. I wouldn't be able to get another job if Mrs Roberts dismissed me without a character, and I need the money I earn to help at home. How would I live, let alone send money home?'
Richard swept his hand across the frown on his face. 'It makes things difficult, I do see that,' he confessed. He hadn't appreciated how confined girls such as Marigold were. In his own class girls were always chaperoned, and trollops like Flo obviously did not need to be. He'd never before considered the situation of virtuous working girls in between the extremes he knew.
'I'm sorry,' Marigold whispered.
'If we can't meet openly without ruining you, we must find somewhere private, where no one will see us. I have the motor car, we could go for drives.'
'It's wrong. Anyway, we might still be seen.'
'Not if we take care to meet well away from the town. I can't think where now, since it might mean you have to take a horse bus to some village. Meet me for a moment next week in the Cornmarket and by then I'll have made some plans.'
'It's too public!'
'I know, but just for a few minutes. By then I'll have thought of somewhere else we can meet, where no one will see us.'
The Cobweb Cage Page 12